Jonathan Kellerman - When The Bough Breaks

"I don't," I assured her, "I just wanted you to know that he trusted me and told me everything. I know you couldn't until he did."

"I'm glad you understand," she said primly.

"Thank you for leading me to him."

"It was my pleasure, Alex. Just put the information to good use."

It was the second time in ten minutes that I'd received that mandate. Add to that a similar order from Raquel Ochoa and it made for a heavy load.

"I will. Do you have the clipping?"

"Here." She handed me the photocopy. The death of Lilah Towle and "Little Willie" had made the front page, sharing space with a report on fraternity hijinks and a reprint of an Associated Press report on the dangers of "mariwuana reefers." I started to read but the copy was blurred and barely legible. Margaret saw me straining.

"The original was rubbed out."

"It's okay." I skimmed the article long enough to see that it was consistent with Van der Graaf's recollection.

"Here's another story, several days later - about the funeral. This one's better."

I took it from her and examined it. By now the Towle affair was on page six, a social register item. The account of the ceremony was maudlin and full of dropped names. A photograph at the bottom caught my eye.

Towle led the mourners procession, haggard and grim, hands folded in front of him. To one side was a younger, still toadlike Edwin Hayden. To the other, slightly to the rear, was a towering figure. There was no mistaking the identity of the mourner.

The kinky hair was black, the face bloated and shiny. The heavy framed eyeglasses I'd seen a few days before were replaced by gold - rimmed, round spectacles resting low on the meaty nose.

It was the Reverend Augustus McCaffrey in younger days.

I folded both papers and slipped them into my jacket pocket.

"Call Van der Graaf," I said.

"He's an old man. Don't you think you've questioned him enough - "

"Just call him," I cut her off. "If you don't I'll run back there myself."

She winced at my abruptness, but dialed the phone.

When the connection was made she said, "Sorry to bother you, Professor. It's him again." She listened, shot me an unhappy look and handed me the receiver, holding it at arm's length.

"Thank you," I said sweetly. Into the phone: "Professor, I need to ask you about another student. It's important."

"Go on. I've only Miss November of 1973 occupying my attention. Who is it?"

"Augustus McCaffrey - was he a friend of Towle, too?"

There was silence on the other end of the line and then the sound of laughter.

"Oh, dear me! That's a laugh! Gus McCaffrey, a Jedson student! And him touched by the tar brush!" He laughed some more and it was a while before he caught his breath. "Mary Mother of God, no, man. He was no student here!"

"I've got a photograph in front of me showing him at the Towle funeral - "

"Be that as it may, he was no student. Gus

McCaffrey was - I believe they call themselves maintenance engineers today - Gus was a janitor. He swept the dormitories, took out the trash, that kind of thing."

"What was he doing at the funeral? It looks like he's right behind Towle, ready to catch him if he falls."

"No surprise. He was originally an employee of the Hickle family - they had one of the largest homes on Brindamoor. Family retainers can grow quite close to their masters - I believe Stuart brought him over to Jedson when he began college here. He did eventually attain some kind of rank within the custodial staff - supervisory janitor or something similar. Leaving Brindamoor may very well have been an excellent opportunity for him. What's big Gus doing today?"

"He's a minister - the head of that children's home I told you about."

"I see. Taking out the Lord's trash, so to speak."

"So to speak. Can you tell me anything about him."

"I honestly can't, I'm afraid. I had no contact with the nonacademic employees - there's a tendency to pretend they're invisible that's acquired over time. He was a big brute of a fellow, that I do recall. Slovenly, seemed quite strong, may very well have been bright - your information certainly points in that direction, and I'm no social Darwinist with a need to dispute it. But that is really all I can tell you. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. One last thing - where can I get a map of Brindamoor Island?"

"There's none that I know of outside the County Hall of Records - wait, a student of mine did an undergraduate thesis on the history of the place, complete with residential map. I don't have a copy but I believe it would be stored in the library, in the thesis section. The student's name was - let me think - Church? No, it was something else of a clerical nature - Chaplain. Gretchen Chaplain. Look under C, you should find it."

"Thanks again, Professor. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Margaret Dopplemeier sat at her desk, glaring at me.

"I'm sorry for being rude," I said. "It was important."

"All right," she said. "I just thought you could have been a little more polite in view of what I've done for you." The possessive look slithered into her eyes like a python into a lagoon.

"You're right. I should have. I won't trouble you further." I stood up. "Thanks so much for everything." I held out my hand, and when she reluctantly extended hers, I took it. "You've really made a big difference."

"That's good to know. How long will you be staying?"

Gently I broke the handclasp.

"Not long." I backed away, smiled at her, finally got my hand on the knob and pushed. "All the best, Margaret. Enjoy your blackberries."

She started to say something, then thought better of it. I left her standing behind her desk, a circle of pink tongue - tip visible in the corner of her unattractive mouth, searching for a taste of something.

The library was properly austere and very respectably stocked with books and journals for a college the size of Jedson. The main room was a marble cathedral draped in heavy red velvet and lit by oversized windows placed ten feet apart. It was filled with oak reading tables, green - shaded lamps, leather chairs. All that was missing were people to read the august volumes that papered the walls.

The librarian was an effete young man with close cropped hair and a pencil mustache. His shirt was red plaid, his tie a yellow knit. He sat behind his reference table reading a recent copy of Artforum. When I asked him where the thesis section was, he looked up with the astonished expression of a hermit observing the penetration of his lair.

"There," he said, languidly, and pointed to a spot at the south end of the room.

There was an oak card catalog and I found Gretchen Chaplain's thesis listed in it. The title of her magnum opus had been Brindamoor Island: Its History and Geography.

Theses by Frederick Chalmers and O. Winston Chastain were present, but Gretchen's rightful place between them was unfilled. I checked and double checked the Library of Congress number but that was a fruitless ritual: The Brindamoor study was gone.

I went back to Plaid Shirt and had to clear my throat twice before he tore himself away from a piece on Billy Al Bengston.

"Yes?"

"I'm looking for a specific thesis and can't seem to find it."

"Have you checked the card file to make sure it's listed?"

"The card's there but the thesis isn't."

"How unfortunate. I would guess it's been checked out."

"Could you check for me, please?"

He sighed and took too long to raise himself out of his chair. "What's the author's name?"

I gave him all the necessary information and he went behind the checkout counter with an injured look. I followed him.

"Brindamoor Island - dreary place. Why would you want to know about that?"

"I'm a visiting professor from UCLA and it's part of my research. I didn't know an explanation was necessary."